only to find one of my brothers, my only family, could be a stranger.
“We have heard that his memories are returning each day, and Zoya, we believe he remembers you, but—”
“But what?” I said almost inaudibly.
“Miss,” Avto said, and stepped closer, “he believes you died in the massacre. He has no idea that you survived. He never got word that your body was never found.”
My head fell forward at the thought of Zaal remembering his family after all of these years of blackness, only to believe we had all perished. “He is all alone?” I asked, imagining what he must be going through.
Avto did not say anything in response. When I lifted my head, Avto was rigid, his seventy-five-year-old body taut with tension. This time I didn’t ask what was wrong. I simply waited.
“He is not alone,” Avto admitted, after many strained seconds.
“He has minders that found him? People loyal to our family?”
Avto shook his head, his crepe-thin skin paling. I edged forward and placed my hand on his arm. “Avto?”
But Avto did not say anything; instead he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled put a picture. My heart kicked into a sprint as I stared at the white back of the photograph. Zaal. I knew my Zaal was in that picture.
I reached out my hand, but Avto pulled it back. I met his eyes in annoyance. Avto cleared his throat. “Zaal is not alone, Zoya. We have heard the news that he is recently engaged to be wed.”
My lips parted in shock and I shook my head. “Engaged? How is that possible? I thought he had been imprisoned by Jakhua? When did he have time to find a woman? I don’t understand how any of this is possible.”
Avto stared down at the picture in his hand, then pushed it out for me to take. My hands shook as I reached out and grasped the picture. I brought it to my chest and closed my eyes. I’d always wondered what Zaal would look like older. Would he be as tall and strong as I always thought he would be? Would he still wear his black hair down to the middle of his back, like the Georgian warriors of old? Would he still smile with carefree abandon, yet be quiet and reserved in personality?
The picture against my chest felt like it was burning a hole through my clothes. With a deep breath, I pulled the picture back and dropped my gaze to the two figures captured in the scene.
My heart swelled in my chest at as I stared at the man. The hugely built man with olive tanned skin and long black hair that fell to his back. His green eyes were bright, three moles standing proud under his left eye.
And he was smiling.
He was smiling so wide. The smile packed with an abundance of love, as my brother—my now adult and strong brother—stared down at a woman with nothing but adoration.
My eyes drifted across the picture to the woman and a lump clogged my throat. She was beautiful. Long blond hair fell down her back. She was slight of build, utterly captivating, and her deep brown eyes were looking up at Zaal, her lips smiling, too.
It felt surreal. My brother who I thought had died was very much alive. Alive and in love. My heart was full and warm.
Bringing the picture closer to my face, I could see tattoos marring Zaal’s skin, and on closer inspection I could see scars littering bare arms revealed under his short-sleeved shirt. I had to close my eyes as a wave of sorrow washed over me. What must he have gone through under the hand of that evil man?
Blinking fast, I glanced to Avto. “Who is the woman?”
Avto did not reply; instead he rocked on his feet, his hands clasping together behind his back.
“Avto?”
Shaking his head, Avto said, “I can scarcely believe it to be true, but his fiancée is…” Avto trailed off, his jaw clenching.
“Who is she?” I demanded, injecting an urgent tone into my voice.
Without lifting his head, he revealed, “Talia Tolstaia.”
I was sure the walls and floor of the apartment were falling down around me at the mention of that name. I shook my head, convinced I had misheard. “Can you repeat what you said?” I asked.
Avto shook his head. “You heard me perfectly, miss. Zaal, our new Lideri, our leader, he is betrothed to Talia Tolstaia, daughter to Ivan Tolstoi, one of the Volkov Bratva Red Kings.”